


what a pair we are

by Anonymississippi



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mentions of incest, canon compliant violence mentioned, post parlor kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: Charlotte considers what led her to her mother's parlor after her attack on Quigley. Isabella remains, as always, an ally in troubling times.





	what a pair we are

Charlotte had bedded culls of higher rank, a duke even (though she wasn't supposed to know), but she had never dallied with anyone more confounding or contradictory than Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam.

The lady was soft, her lips like velveteen settees where Charlotte had once lain prostrate, her affectation of pleasured groaning uttered to substantiate some wealthier man’s loosely-crafted fantasy. And yet Isabella’s restraint was harder than the soldier boy’s muscles, harder than the stones thrown in the county courts at whores caught by magistrates. Luckily in London, crowds still gathered for an old-fashioned hanging, and perhaps did not find stoning barbaric; it was simply too laborious. Beyond the city walls and the stench of piss and bile, engaged in the daily slog of tending to men’s pleasure, harlots were beaten, stoned, or drowned, if the rural courts had not grown more creative in their punishments.

Upon introduction, Isabella had prepared to cast her aside for her vocation, insinuating that her soul was blacker even than Quigley’s. But so much had changed in the past several weeks, destabilized so drastically Charlotte felt she might just slide to the floor if Isabella had not been there to hold her gaze, if the couch had not been beneath her to hold her nervous body.

Isabella stroked Charlotte’s hand at her cheek—softness and hardness distilled to an instant of vulnerability. Charlotte found herself leaning against her, pressing into her lips and jaw and the top of her skirts to reaffirm Isabella of her presence, her companionship, and even the familiar inklings of affection Charlotte was recognizing despite her characteristic hesitancy.

How had she found herself here, in safe quarters, with lips pressed against her own and no money exchanged for the efforts? She truly looked a fright, hair tousled, her color uneven. Quigley had managed to grasp hold of a sleeve and yanked so desperately she’d split a seam—all of that before Charlotte’s young hands had encircled her throat and squeezed, turning Quigley’s regal pallor bluer than Isabella’s eyes. Charlotte had not groomed properly, nor had she washed in the perfumed oils of Golden Square since the hours before… before the _rape_ of Quigley’s hostage.

She tried not to think of how unappealing she must seem to the lady before her. She tried even harder not to think of the hostage, the babe, the virgin girl, who had cursed her to lose her family.

Lady Isabella shuddered beneath her touch, and drew away, as if she could sense Charlotte’s guilty thoughts.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, her soft voice forever on the brink of substantiality, burgeoning on something more than a whisper, gentler than a breeze. Isabella’s words were always quiet and partially stunted, curtailed by an evil man who had obliterated the life she could have led when he set his body upon her own. To think of that incestuous joining turned her stomach as much as the celebration of the Vestal Virgins.

Charlotte felt Isabella squeeze her fingers before tilting her head aside, her deep blue eyes shimmering in the parlor’s candlelight.

“What is there to forgive?” Charlotte asked, brushing her thumb along Isabella’s cheekbone.

“I’ve no money for you.”

“I’ve no interest in your money.”

“Please do not stand on pretense with me,” Isabella said, withdrawing her face entirely. “We both know it is not true and I… these last weeks with Lydia Quigley’s watch on my every move have left me treading a rapier's edge. She has robbed me of what little courage I had built these past years.”

Isabella turned to face the table before them, her fingers fisted against the meat of her palm. Flames jumped in intermittent exclamations in the fire place beyond, and the heat from the room still lingered even after the Scanwell girl had been moved back to the justice’s house. It was indeed hot in the parlor, but Charlotte knew the warmth in her chest was not residual effects of a stabbing gone awry, or her anger festering like clotted blood in a wound… it was not the heat of passion, not quite, not _yet,_ Charlotte thought. But even if her lips didn’t burn, she could still feel Isabella’s kiss upon them.

The energetic tingle of _potential_.

“I cannot bear your lies, Charlotte, even if you use them to spare my feelings,” Isabella muttered.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Charlotte said, reaching out for her hand again. Isabella rebuffed her, but Charlotte pressed. “Lady Fitz—m’La—Isabella, _please_ ,” Charlotte managed, grasping hold of fingers adorned with gold and sapphires that could have easily paid for her time, and yet… Isabella never offered her such payments in private. Only under Quigley’s eye did she fall into step with other members of the gentry, paying as if she didn’t feel as deeply as Charlotte knew she did. As deeply as Charlotte feared feeling one day, for anyone. Perhaps even the gentlewoman settled across from her.

“Please.” Charlotte bowed her head, lifted the lady’s hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I cannot undo what he did to you. I cannot take Lydia Quigley’s knowledge from her, not without killing her. A task I failed to complete.”

“You attempted… to kill—”

“Not once in my life have I ever felt so… so out of control that I dared strike back at a cull I couldn’t control,” Charlotte confessed, her hands still holding Isabella’s fingers tightly, twisting the golden ring with sapphire stones on the Lady’s third finger round and round. “Perhaps with my last keeper, but… he is of no consequence. Lydia Quigley… Dame Death…” Charlotte placed a hand over her lips, marveling at the tingle still spreading to the edges of her smile. “I struck her. I choked her. And I would have killed her if I hadn't been stopped. Then at least one of us would’ve been free.”

She wanted so badly to comfort Isabella, but she knew little comfort in her own life besides that comfort which came as aftermath of pleasure. Infrequently, the bone-tired exhaustion from rigorous enterprises in bed could elevate even whores to hazy heavens of respite. And, if Isabella’s claims against her brother were true, she had not felt the touch of a man—of _anyone_ since that violation, so how could she know the peace that succeeded it? That contentedness? That not-quite-heat, but warmth; like stew in her belly in the middle of a frozen February, or vats of boiling water poured in the far end of the copper bathing tub to tickle her toes. All prepared by her Ma, or Nance, maybe, to provide what little comforts she could enjoy with the hand fate had dealt her.

She couldn’t give that comfort to Isabella, not now, with her circumstances so uncertain, but she could reaffirm her loyalty.

“I told you I wished to destroy Lydia Quigley.”

“Hmm,” Isabella nodded, so stiff on the couch Charlotte wondered if she might fly from the room if her fingers brushed her skirts.

“I had my hands ‘round her neck today,” Charlotte whispered, releasing Isabella, her own palms levitating before her to frame an invisible something that was slim and brittle, a neck as pale as a skeleton’s vertebrae. “Does that frighten you?”

“No.”

Recalling the incident was wearisome, for Charlotte felt more deeply in her memories than in the heat of the moment the frailty of the woman at her mercy. She squeezed, and squeezed, and kept squeezing, wondering, fleetingly, if the effort required to snuff Quigley’s light equated to half the effort required to choke her previous keeper.  Her mother was a strong woman and Sir George had suffered serious blood loss, but a young man’s trachea must’ve had more sponginess to it, more muscle or skin or inner bits of anatomical scaffolds, holding it all together. Lydia felt old and Charlotte felt triumphant, ready to deal the killing blow, even if meant her sparkling, golden shoes would swing beneath the weight of her corpse in the justice’s noose.

There was no justice in rape, not in the boarding houses, nor in the houses of the gentry.

None throughout the whole of London.

“What stopped you?” Isabella asked.

“Ma,” Charlotte said. “She was adamant I not kill her… I inherited her war, but I’m no soldier.”

“I disagree,” Isabella said, wringing her hands together in her lap, twisting the ring on her finger uncertainly. “You are the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

Charlotte had heard praise all of her life, some of it even sincere, but so little of it had to do with her character she did not know how to immediately respond.

“You must not meet many decent women then,” she dismissed Isabella, fearing their moment had passed. “It’s ‘cause you’re only ever hanging ‘round your brother’s people. Sorry lot, from what I’ve ‘heard—”

“Charlotte.”

Charlotte watched as Isabella closed her eyes briefly and removed the glittering navy jewel from her finger. It glinted in the light, true gold, pure gemstone, worth a month’s rent and board at an upstanding London lodging house, depending on the state of the place. She placed it within Charlotte’s palm, and pressed her fingers tightly against her closed fist. 

Confused, Charlotte looked back up at Isabella, marveling at the tears falling along the ridge of her nose. Her hand moved once again to cup her cheek, to brush the tears away, and to lean closer for a kiss.

“No,” Isabella said. “That is not… what this is for.”

“Then what is it for?”

“For being a—a brave friend,” Isabella said. “A remarkable friend. I can give you so little, Charlotte, but an attempt on Quigley’s life will not go unanswered. You must leave.”

“How can you—how can you say that?” Charlotte asked. “She’ll come for you, to ask after me, if she discovers I’ve gone. She thinks I’ve taken a shine to you—thinks _we_ … are…”

“Whatever we are, we can’t very well continue to _be_ it, if one of us is dead,” Isabella said. “And I’ve been keeping count in young Mr. Harris’s rag. More girls show up dead on your mother’s doorstep than they do at Quigley’s.” Isabella took Charlotte’s closed fist, the ring gripped so tightly inside it Charlotte wondered whether it was Lady Isabella’s signet, and if, with some thrilling sense of possession, her seal would be imprinted on Charlotte’s palm. Why she took comfort in the notion, Charlotte could not fathom. She had never quite liked having a keeper, beyond the resources the money provided. But Charlotte actually enjoyed Isabella’s company, a far cry from her dealings with Sir George. He provided amusement, and terror, and a volatile, childish demeanor, but Isabella…  

Charlotte wished for freedom for all women. The kind of freedom in which a harlot and a lady might pass time together and nurture a mutual affection, without the droning gossips disparaging what remained of their reputations.

Could such a world of precious anonymity ever exist?

Isabella stared at her and sighed, then pressed silk-soft lips against the back of her hand. She could never out-maneuver the questions of her circle. The problem, Charlotte discovered, was that she and Isabella were far more alike than they were different. They were cunning, and engaging, and fancied themselves as clever on occasion; but in truth, there was only so far they could run before one, or both of them, collapsed.

“I cannot abide your death, Charlotte. And I will not damn you through your association with me.”

“Harlot, remember?” Charlotte raised a brow, the tingle from her lips having migrated to the back of her hand. “Cursed and damned we may be, but at the end of it… I hope I still have your trust.”

“You’ve given me no reason to distrust you, and every reason to admire you.”

“Even knowing… what I did to Quigley?”

“ _Especially_ knowing what you did to Quigley,” Isabella repeated, the tilt of her lips hedging on a smile. “I do not fear blows against my body in the same way I fear the information I’ve given you. You have everything it would take to ruin me.”

“Except for a reputation,” Charlotte argued. “Even if I stood on the stand, no one would believe my word.”

“I would.”

“You are… the exception, m’Lady.”

“Am I a fool to say that your regard of me… makes me feel special?” Isabella looked carefully toward Charlotte, bravely inching closer than she had dared move all night.

“Not a fool, no,” Charlotte said, matching her inch for inch. “But human… yes.”

They were centimeters apart when she heard the knock, slow, enough for courtesy, but swift enough to remind the pair that they sought sanctuary in a boarding house, and time, blessed time, equated to twice-blessed money.

“Alright there, Nance?” Charlotte muttered, dipping her chin away from Isabella, who had frozen at the sound of knuckles on wood.

“Lucy’s took off,” Nancy said, her tricorne dipped low over her forehead. “And your ma’ left near an hour ago, and Jacob’s not been put to bed.”

Charlotte rose immediately, her skirts fluttering out beneath her.

“An hour? Did Pa—”

“Aye, he's tending to Jacob. Mags says she’s gone for the justice’s house, but I’ve a queer feeling with your mother out so late and your hands still throbbing red from Quigley’s lily-white neck.”

“We should split up, then,” Charlotte said. “Shall I go for Ma or—”

“No, to Lucy,” Nancy insisted. “I’ve already been after your sister once today, and it was hell getting her here in the first place. That girl needs sense, and what’s left of yours will have to do. Fallon’s place is near St. James’.”

“Fallon? Lord Fallon?” Isabella asked, inhaling sharply. “There is much… talk about him, Charlotte. I urge you to use caution.”

“What kind of talk?”

“The kind with which we are intimately familiar,” Isabella shook her head. “Dangerous talk. Unsubstantiated. He is often at the House of Blayne and fancies himself a hunter of great skill.”

“Lucy…” Charlotte muttered, thinking back to the sour look her sister had thrown her across the table, when she’d dismissed her advances with Fallon. And Ma, so many drinks in, guilt and heaviness weighing on her with Kitty’s passing, Lucy’s poor choices, and now… Charlotte’s lack of a post. Losing a keeper was one thing, but being booted from Golden Square could ruin her.

Could ruin them all.

She could lose… everything.

“No time to lose,” Nancy insisted, dipping her head low. “Your ladyship, there’s your pick of the beds in the house—”

“No, I… thank you. But I must return home.”

Nancy pivoted on her booted heel and tromped down the back hall, presumably to see after William and Jacob. Isabella gathered her gloves, catching Charlotte’s eye as she paced before the dying fire.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte murmured, combing through her tangled curls. “I—my sister—”

“You must go to her,” Isabella said, wrapping her cloak round her shoulders. Standing near her, Charlotte could see how tall she was, how solid, and how fluidly she moved. Lady Fitz could easily command power, and command it beautifully, if only she could overcome her brother.

“Shall we take my coach? You’ll get there faster.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near him!” Charlotte snapped, startling even herself by her tone. “I don’t want my sister, or Ma, or Fanny, or… or anyone near him. The talk you’ve heard…”

Charlotte stalked beyond the table and straightened her chin, lifting her hand to clasp Isabella's cloak closed at her throat. It looked so different than Lydia’s had earlier that day, pulsing with blood and lithe and smooth; the neck, shoulders, and stature of a true Lady.

“He is vile,” Charlotte growled.

“And you are running straight towards him.”

“You’ve got to face a monster to fight him.”

“Armed with what, Charlotte?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure yet, I just—”

“Use the ring as collateral,” Isabella insisted. “Flee, with your sister, with your mother, if you must. From Quigley and the pervasive death that follows her.”

“And what of you?”

“What _of_ me? You cannot shoulder my burdens as well as your own. You would certainly be crushed.”

“But what a noble end, to aid a friend in need,” Charlotte twisted, raising on her toes to plant a kiss to Lady Isabella’s cheek, matching the tentative kiss she’d bestowed upon her in the sitting room of Golden Square. They had known so little of each other then; and even still, knew only a bit more of each other now. But they each knew motivations, and connections, and loyalties, and perhaps that was what mattered most.

Charlotte left Lady Isabella in her Ma’s parlor with a blush on her cheeks, a flutter in her chest, and a signet ring of gold and sapphire tucked in the pocket of her cloak.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for the introspective purple prose but I wanted to give writing these two a go because THEY ARE KILLING ME. in fact, this WHOLE SHOW IS KILLING ME. I've got thoughts for an amelia/violet piece. and an amelia & rasselas piece. and an entire novela dedicated to Nancy Birch who I love with all of my soul. 
> 
> hulu needs to advertise this because this season is effing superb
> 
> if you love harlots come yell at me I'm anonymississippi on tumblr!


End file.
